Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

"I'll take you to the body," Pasquarelli told Jake. "I got a feeling I know what you're going to say. I'm hoping to hell I'm wrong."

Jake followed him into a dim hallway. A large rat sat on the stairs leading to the second floor, utterly unperturbed by all the commotion, attentive to the prospect of food that this incursion of humans might bring. As the men passed, the rat emitted a noise that sounded for all the world like a sarcastic snicker.

Pasquarelli flinched. "Fuckin' rats-the place is crawling with them. They say for every one you see, there're three more hiding." Jake, whose nose was as sensitive to anything involving death as a bloodhound's was to the living, didn't have to be told that. He could smell their presence-their droppings, their dander, their decomposing bodies-all around him. The scent of rodents was mixed with something much worse: human excrement, human decay, human fear.

The hall led straight from front to back, passing two rooms. The front main room was filled with a clutter of old chairs and a small lectern, illuminated slightly by the dusty sunlight that penetrated the window and grate. Although a few crime-scene techs worked that space, the real beehive of activity was in the small, windowless rear room.

The building's power had been shut off long ago, and an orange electrical cable snaked out to a police generator on the street. Brilliant work lights showed up every detail of the room in harsh relief.

A man's naked body was spread-eagled on a wide, old wooden door that had been set up across two sturdy sawhorses, apparently lifted from a construction site. The man had been tightly secured to the door with rope tied to large metal rings screwed directly into the wood. Each hand and foot was tied to a ring, and the rope crossed his torso in two places, tied with no slack on both sides.

Jake turned to Pasquarelli. "What makes you think this is the work of the Vampire? All the other victims were attacked in their homes."

The detective pointed.

Inside the crook of the victim's left arm was a Band-Aid with a cotton ball beneath it, the kind of remedy a nurse applies after drawing blood. Printed neatly in black ink on the Band-Aid were the words Look here. Jake did as directed and saw the single puncture mark of a blood draw.

A man's tasteful plaid suit was draped neatly on a hanger; a shirt and underwear were folded on a chair, with a pair of vintage Weejun penny loafers lined up underneath. The victim's clothes-this was no homeless derelict. Still, Jake was not entirely convinced.

"Could be a copycat."

Pasquarelli gestured uncomfortably toward the midsection of the body. "You're the expert, Doc, but aren't those burn marks like on Ms. Hogaarth? And that detail wasn't released to the public."

Jake pulled out his magnifying glass. "Can't be positive until the autopsy, but I think you're right. You've ID'd him?" he asked Pasquarelli.

"He's a Dr. Raymond Fortes. Works for a small pharmaceutical firm. They reported him missing on Wednesday."

Jake shook his head. "He's been here quite a bit longer than that." He began to examine the body and spoke aloud as he worked. "Numerous small flesh wounds and bruises. The bruises have various coloration-these yellowish ones are older, the purplish ones are more recent. Rat bites-inflicted over a period of days."

"What's that muddy-looking brown stuff in his chest hair and on his leg there?" Pasquarelli asked.

Jake touched it and raised his gloved hand to his nose. Just as he suspected. "Peanut butter."

"Wha-" Understanding crept into Pasquarelli's mournful brown eyes. "Ah, Jesus. They spread peanut butter on him to attract the rats."

"Have you contacted the next of kin?" Jake asked. "This won't be an easy thing to tell them."

"The vic was a widower, not many friends. When he didn't show at the office on Monday, they didn't think much of it. Sometimes he worked from home and didn't like to be disturbed. Guess Dr. Fortes wasn't their most popular employee. But by Wednesday, they started calling him, and when they couldn't turn him up, they filed a missing person report."

"And the police tracked him to here?"

"Hell no. A middle-aged man with no family to make a fuss goes missing, we don't bother much. We checked to see if he was at the morgue. A couple uniforms went over to his apartment. No signs of trouble there, so they figured he decided to walk out on his life in New York. Happens all the time."

"So who found him?"

"City rodent-control officer. People from the building next door been complaining that the rats are invading them from over here. Baby got bit, so the rat guy comes over here to see about spreading the poison and sealing up the holes." Pasquarelli shoved his fists into the already-misshapen pockets of his brown sports coat. "He's got a truly sucky job, and today it got even worse."

Jake nodded as he continued to study the body. In places, the loss of flesh was quite extensive. Some of the older wounds were inflamed and covered in pus. Pasquarelli grew restless at Jake's silent examination. "How long ago did he die?" the detective asked.

"I'd say his heart stopped about two days ago. But he started the process of dying many days before that."

"What finally killed him?"

"I can't tell until I open him up. Probably a combination of things-shock, dehydration, blood loss, infection. He wasn't a young man-probably in his early sixties."

"Days of suffering," Pasquarelli said. "How could one human being do that to another? I've seen homicide, suicide, fratricide, patricide, and every other kind of cide, but I've never seen anything like this before. It's starting to feel like this Vampire really is some supernaturally evil creature."

Jake shook his head. "Don't let your imagination run away with you, Vito. When we catch this guy, he'll be as average as you or me. Not an obvious monster, but a person with a regular life, like the Nazi death camp guards or the soldiers at Abu Ghraib."

Pasquarelli was not persuaded. "But those guys justified what they did by saying they were just following orders in a time of war. That's not what's happening here."

"Maybe he's fighting his own private war, Vito. Our job is to figure out what it is."

Trapped.

Manny took a deep breath to steady her pounding heart. For at least the tenth time since she'd gotten into this mess, she looked for a way out.

Hopeless. A Moishe the Bagel Man truck in front of her, black livery cab beside her, overbearing SUV right on her tail. And beneath her, the waters of New York Harbor. She hated to admit that Jake had been right, but the subway to Rosamond Street would've been much faster. Bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge at midday should not have come as a surprise.

Still, driving her Porsche hadn't been a totally stupid idea. Once she found Travis, she wanted the option of getting him out of that apartment fast. Standing on the subway platform waiting for the B train didn't really fit her plan for a quick escape.

Manny squirmed in the driver's seat without taking her feet off the clutch or the brake pedals. What awaited her on Rosamond Street? Would Travis be alone in the apartment? Would he listen to reason, come with her willingly? What would she do if he refused, or if whoever lived in the apartment refused for him? The possibilities for trouble seemed a lot more numerous stuck here in traffic than they had in the diner with Jake.

The driver of the livery cab, distracted by talking on his cell phone headset, allowed a small gap to open up in front of him. Manny jerked the wheel and accelerated, shoehorning her way into the space and inching past the bagel delivery truck. The maneuver gave her a sense of accomplishment until she saw the broader vista of jammed traffic ahead of her. Out of one tight spot and into another-an uncomfortable metaphor for her behavior today. She didn't think of herself as reckless. As a lawyer, she was trained to be logical. But somehow, Jake, with his methodical and painstaking approach to every problem, made her seem impulsive.